Murder at the PTA

by Lee Hollis

Frances was now struggling to stand up but couldn’t. “So when did you two collude together and decide to send Sandra out in the field . . . again.”

  “Calm down, Frances,” Maya said, laughing. “She wasn’t exactly out in the field. They just take a cooking class together.”

  “You haven’t answered my question,” Frances said, still laboring to rise up off the couch.

  Maya finally crossed to her and took her hands and hauled her up on her feet. “Our kids are in the musical together at the high school, and we took them out for pizza after the show, and we were chatting. There is nothing sinister about it. I’m not looking for a new partner.”

  Frances shot a glance at Sandra and then turned back to Maya. “Of course I know that. You’ll never find anyone better at this job than me. And once I pop out this baby, I’ll be back one hundred percent, that I can promise you.”

  “It’s all good, Frances, really,” Maya said soothingly. “You can take all the time you need. Don’t pressure yourself.”

  Sandra smiled. “I remember when I was carrying my first child, Jack, and he was such a kicker, I mean constantly, and one night—”

  Frances cut her off. “Was there anything else?”

  Sandra shook her head, deflated. “No, that was it. But if you want my opinion . . .”

  Frances opened her mouth to speak, but this time Maya interrupted her before she had the chance. “Yes, Sandra, please, tell us what you think.”

  Maya stared at Frances, silently warning her to behave.

  “Well,” Sandra said, clutching her purse. “Georgina is clearly hiding something, so I would suggest we, I mean you, do some kind of stakeout and follow her around.”

  Frances sighed. “To what end?”

  “Well, if she was responsible or had a hand in Maisie’s murder, then she might somehow make a mistake or show her true colors.”

  “That’s a pretty broad canvas for a stakeout,” Frances argued. “Tailing a drama teacher on the off chance she might be connected to a death that the cops ruled a suicide.”

  “We have a paying client, Frances, who wants us to prove her sister was murdered, so I think Sandra is right. We need to follow every lead, even if it’s just a feeling that Georgina is hiding something.”

  “Fine. Whatever,” Frances huffed.

  Maya took a deep breath and treaded carefully. “And maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if Sandra joined us on this one—”

  “What?” Frances cried.

  “Hear me out. She knows everybody at the school, and she can get to people we don’t necessarily have access to, and with you about to go into labor at any moment . . .”

  “I’m not going anywhere until my water breaks, do you hear me? I can do the job, Maya,” Frances said, seething.

  “I know you can, but what’s wrong with enlisting a little free help?”

  “Help? She’s not a professional. The woman has absolutely no experience, and she has no idea what she’s doing! She nearly got herself killed! She will just get in the way!”

  Sandra could see Maya trying to play the diplomat but just getting caught in the middle, so she decided to intervene. “Frances is right, Maya. I’ll be honest. I scared myself silly playing detective the other night and have no desire to ever put myself in such a dangerous situation again. So I’m just going to go home and let the professionals handle this.”

  “I promise to keep you in the loop,” Maya said.

  “I would appreciate that. Thank you,” Sandra said, before turning to Frances and trying one more time. “Good luck with the baby, Frances. You’re going to love being a mother.”

  It didn’t work.

  Frances just stood there, eyes blazing.

  Sandra knew it was time to leave. “Have a lovely evening, ladies.”

  “’Bye, Sandra,” Maya said with a rueful smile.

  Sandra slowly backed out of the door, leaving it open a crack, and then clattered off down the hall before realizing she was walking in the wrong direction and returned, passing the office door, heading the other way.

  She overheard Maya scolding Frances. “You didn’t have to be so rude.”

  But Sandra knew Frances didn’t care about her and was just happy to hear that she was not going to be sticking her nose into their business again anytime soon. Frances was finally rid of her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “For an artsy type, she sure is the most boring person we’ve ever staked out.” Frances sighed, biting into the burger they had picked up at a McDonald’s drive-through before parking in front of Georgina Callis’s modest house on a quiet residential street in East Deering, situated between Munjoy Hill, North Deering, and the neighboring town of Falmouth.

  Behind the wheel of her car, Maya sipped a Diet Coke. “We’ve only been here a couple of hours. Let’s give her a chance to prove you wrong.”

  “I’m not holding my breath,” Frances said, shifting her body in the passenger’s seat, trying to get her belly in a more comfortable position. “What’s she got on the TV? Can you tell?”

  “I think it’s one of those Real Housewives shows, but I’m not really sure,” Maya answered, squinting her eyes, trying to get a good look through the living-room window.

  “She hasn’t gotten off the couch since she went to refill her wineglass. God, what I would do right now for a glass of pinot noir,” Frances said wistfully. “I’m betting she’s in for the night. Want to call it quits?”

  Suddenly there was a loud rap on the driver’s side window, startling them both. Frances let out a surprised yelp. Maya whipped her head around to see an elderly man, thin, pockmarked face, a few wisps of white hair sprouting off the top of his otherwise bald head. He was holding a dog leash.

  Maya pressed the button to put down her window.

  “Evening, ladies,” he said, staring at them through Coke-bottle glasses.

  Maya nodded. “Evening.”

  “Do you live around here?” he asked, inspecting Frances’s pregnant stomach.

  Frances noticed and tried to sit up straight. “What’s it to you? Are you the neighborhood-watch captain?”

  Maya shot her a stern look to keep quiet as she tried a more diplomatic approach. “No, we were just in the neighborhood for a Tupperware party.”

  “I see,” the nosy man said, glancing in the back seat to see if they had actually bought any Tupperware. “I saw you two just sitting out here as I was walking my dog, Priscilla, and, well, the neighbors around here tend to look after each other, keep an eye out for any sign of trouble, you know.”

  Maya leaned out the window slightly and looked down to see a scrawny, little fluffy dog with a pink bow tied to the matching pink leash, panting with her tongue hanging out.

  “Cute dog,” Maya remarked.

  This seemed to win her a few points with the local crime stopper. He smiled and said, “Priscilla thanks you, don’t you, precious?”

  The little dog wasn’t listening. She was distracted by another dog being walked by its owner farther down the street.

  The man lowered his thick glasses to the bridge of his nose. “Did Georgina host the party?”

  “Who?” Maya asked, feigning ignorance.

  “Georgina Callis,” the man said, pointing at her house. “She lives right over there.”

  Maya shook her head. “No, why do you ask?”

  “I just saw you looking at her house a lot when Priscilla stopped by that tree to take care of her business.”

  He held up a plastic bag with dog poop inside it, causing Maya to cringe until he finally lowered it out of her view again.

  “No, we don’t know anyone named Regina . . . ,” Maya said with a tight smile.

  “Georgina. I haven’t heard about anyone hosting Tupperware parties in the neighborhood. Who did you say it was?”

  “We didn’t,” Frances interjected, on the verge of lunging at the nosy, annoying old man.

  He noticed her burger. “No food at the Tupperware party?”

&nb
sp; Frances looked down at her half-eaten burger and frowned. “I’m eating for two.”

  “Looks yummy. Did you know McDonald’s burgers are made to order now so they are fresher? It makes a huge difference. Priscilla loves them!”

  Maya checked her watch. “Fascinating. We better get going. If I get home past ten o’clock, I’m going to be on the hook for an extra fifteen dollars for the babysitter.”

  “I won’t keep you,” the man said. “Let’s go, Priscilla.”

  “Good night,” Maya chirped, offering a friendly wave and then pressing the start button of her Chevy Volt. She glanced in the rearview mirror to see the old man making a note of her license plate.

  “We can wait until he’s gone and circle around the block and park again,” Maya said.

  “Come on, Maya, let’s call it quits. Georgina’s not going anywhere,” Frances pleaded, finishing the last of her Quarter Pounder.

  “Fine. We can come back tomorrow,” Maya sighed, about to pull the car away from the curb when she suddenly stopped. “Wait!”

  She slammed on the brake, and they both jolted forward, stopped only by the straps of their seat belts.

  “Seriously, Maya, you want me to go into labor right here?” Frances wailed.

  “Look,” Maya said, eyes glued to a car pulling up in front of Georgina Callis’s house. “She has company.”

  A man got out of a silver Mercedes sedan and walked up the driveway. His back was to them so they couldn’t get a good look at his face. He rang the bell, and they could see Georgina shoot up from the couch, turn off the television, check her hair in a wall mirror, and then scurry to open the door. It flew open, and with her arms outstretched, Georgina greeted her visitor. He slid his arms around her waist and drew her closer to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he bent down and kissed her softly on the lips. She seemed to melt in his embrace.

  The man glanced around to make sure they weren’t being watched, missing the car parked across the street with the two women staring at them, and then gently pushed Georgina inside the house and shut the door.

  “Who do you suppose it is?” Frances asked.

  “I don’t know,” Maya said, raising her phone. “Maybe we’ll get a better view once they’re in the living room.”

  Through the windows, they saw Georgina cross to the bar to make the man a drink while he loosened his tie. She poured him a bourbon and handed it to him, but he was still turned to enough of an angle where he was facing away from them.

  “Come on . . . come on . . . turn around . . . ,” Maya said as if trying to send some mental telepathy his way.

  Georgina returned with her own drink, a clear drink, like vodka with an olive in it, and smiled at him. He stroked her face, and she leaned into his palm, appearing to shiver at his touch. She turned, and he playfully patted her on the behind before she wandered back toward the couch.

  She plopped down and disappeared from view as the man stood in front of her, gazing down, smiling.

  Maya quickly grabbed her phone and snapped a photo.

  “Maybe I can get Mateo to run a facial-recognition program or something,” Frances offered.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Maya said, still staring at the man, who was now bent over kissing Georgina.

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t know who that is?”

  “No, should I?”

  “You should if you ever turn on the news.”

  “I work full-time and I’m eight months pregnant. I don’t have a lot of free time to watch any talking heads on cable. So don’t keep me in suspense. Who is it?”

  “That’s our United States senator from Maine. Stephen Wallage.”

  Frances’s eyes widened. “Wait, you mean . . . ?”

  Maya nodded. “Yup. Sandra Wallage’s husband.”

  “Oh boy.”

  At this point, Stephen Wallage had just dropped to his knees and vanished from their viewing vantage point. They could only surmise that he and Georgina were now passing third base on the couch.

  “What should we do?” Frances asked.

  Maya shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Should we tell her that her husband is cheating on her with her kid’s drama teacher?”

  Maya didn’t answer.

  She just stared straight ahead.

  “Maya, are you still with me?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  After a long pause, Maya shifted the gear into drive and sped off down the street.

  They drove in silence for a bit before Frances couldn’t take it anymore. “Well . . . ?”

  “I think maybe we should tell her,” Maya said, eyes glued to the road.

  “Really? If we keep digging and it turns out Georgina had nothing to do with Maisie Portman’s death, and her only big secret is that she’s having an affair with a married man, then that’s her business, not ours.”

  “But Sandra . . .”

  “Sandra is a pain in the butt! She’s not our bestie, this is not Sex and the City, we barely know her! We should just stay out of it!”

  Maya gripped the wheel and kept driving. Frances leaned back and shifted her belly one more time, under the impression that the whole matter had been mercifully settled.

  But then Maya had the final say. “I would want to know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Maya’s stomach did a flip-flop when she saw Sandra pull into the parking lot of the old-fashioned fifties diner from her booth next to the window. When she had called Sandra the following day and asked if she would be available to meet her in the late afternoon for coffee, Sandra had instantly agreed, suggesting a time and a place. Maya feared Sandra might be under the impression that she and Frances had changed their minds about her helping them out and quickly noted that what she needed to discuss had nothing to do with the Maisie Portman case. Sandra didn’t seem at all fazed by that clarification.

  Maya had shown up early to mentally prepare for their conversation, ordering a cup of coffee from the harried waitress, who was the only server on duty during an unexpectedly busy predinner rush. The waitress hustled toward the table, balancing a tray with three plates of the fried chicken special on one hand and a pot of coffee in the other. She stopped to refill Maya’s white mug before continuing on her way to feed the three loud and raucous teenage boys at a table in the back.

  Maya watched through the window as Sandra got out of her car. It was starting to drizzle rain, so Sandra quickly slammed the driver’s side door shut and dashed inside the diner. She looked around for Maya, who smiled and waved at her, and then hurried over, sliding into the sky blue vinyl booth opposite her.

  “Traffic was a nightmare. I hope I’m not too late,” Sandra said.

  “No, not at all. Are you hungry?”

  Sandra scooped up the large plastic menu and perused it. “I haven’t eaten all day. I’m craving something sweet. I love their desserts here.”

  Maya hated that she was so nervous. She had broken the bad news to many clients that their spouses were cheating on them. But Sandra was different. Her husband was well-known, a political rock star in the state, and besides that, Maya actually was growing fond of her. She watched Sandra scan the list of choices and then flag down the waitress.

  Sandra smiled at the stone-faced, seen-it-all waitress. “I’ll have the bread pudding.”

  The waitress scribbled on her pad. “Ice cream or whipped cream on top?”

  “Definitely the vanilla ice cream,” Sandra said.

  “Got it,” the waitress grunted before sliding her pen behind her ear, dropping the writing pad into the pocket of her apron, and moving off toward the kitchen.

  “My grandmother used to make the most amazing chocolate bread pudding when I was a little girl. But after she died, we couldn’t find her recipe. It had been passed down in the family for generations. I’ve tried re-creating it, but so far, no luck.”

  “That’s nice,” Maya whispered before getting right to the p
oint. “Thank you for meeting me.”

  “I have a feeling I know what this is about,” Sandra said with a sly smile.

  Maya raised an eyebrow, surprised. “You do?”

  “I was very curious after you called. You were so mysterious about what you wanted to talk to me about, but I’m guessing it has something to do with our kids’ budding relationship.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not it,” Maya said, her stomach doing another flip-flop.

  This was going to be much harder than she had expected.

  “They’re getting quite serious, if you haven’t noticed,” Sandra said.

  “Believe me, I’ve noticed,” Maya said. “Vanessa’s face lights up every time Ryan’s name is even mentioned.”

  Maya took a sip of her coffee, stalling the inevitable.

  Finally, Sandra couldn’t take the suspense anymore, and leaned in, elbows on the table. “So what’s up?”

  Maya took a deep breath and just started talking. She knew the words were spilling out of her mouth so fast they were almost incomprehensible, but she just wanted to get everything out—the stakeout with Frances outside Georgina Callis’s house the night before, the man who showed up at her door, how it was obvious that Georgina and this man were sexually involved, how she managed to take a picture of him, how it was dark and grainy, but that didn’t matter, because Maya had recognized the man from watching him on the news.

  Sandra kept a smile fixed on her face throughout, up until the moment when Maya said she knew the man from his news appearances on TV. Then, imperceptibly, the smile cracked a bit before it slowly faded altogether. Maya paused, steeling herself to come out with it, but from the frozen look on Sandra’s face, she knew Sandra was already aware of what Maya was about to say.

  Maya spoke quietly. “It was your husband, Sandra. It was Senator Wallage.”

  There was a slight nod from Sandra as she took this in, but otherwise her face was a mask of calm. Maya looked down at Sandra’s hands, which were now flattened on the table. She noticed a slight tremor from her left hand’s index finger. As if she was fighting to keep all her emotions inside and under control but was physically unable to keep her body from reacting in some small way.